


Show me

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Non-Monogamy, Schroedinger's CPOS, i'm working on them i swear, today in "what sort of dumpster fire will Victor turn out to be this time?", yes I know I have two other wips please have a third
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-08 13:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: Yuri is a bull, and fuck this china shop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing concrit is yay. Characterization concrit is yay, for internal consistency. Thank.

Yuri’s leaning on the sideboards, breath still settling down. Sokolov hands him a bottle of water. Lukewarm—it’s supposed to be better, keep your muscles warm. Yuri doesn’t do much more than nod as he takes it; how did he ever manage to get on the Olympic podium (twice) before Sokolov got here to make him drink lukewarm water will remain a mystery of our times.  Sokolov's full of shit like that, makes Yuri do unnecessary, meaningless crap just so he can feel like Yuri's showing him respect when he does like he's told. And Yuri is determined to disrespect people like that out of sheer bloody-mindedness. 

At least that’s what he tells himself. 

The truth is more like this: dedushka died two years ago, Yakov had a stroke the year after. Yuri can’t do anything for dedushka, but he can visit Yakov once a week, like clockwork, and sit next to his bed with videos from his skates. Yakov would put his thick-rimmed glasses on (with a string around the back, dedushka did his the same way) and peer at the screen of Yuri’s tablet. He'd point at movie-Yuri with his little finger like he's scared to touch the screen, and he'd criticize every single thing. Then he'd give Yuri tips even though he isn’t Yuri’s coach and no one pays him.  Yuri's also got Victor in his phone. Between Yakov and Victor (currently of the Katsuki-Nikoforov coaching duo), there’s little reason to pay attention to fucking Sokolov.

This makes Sokolov mad. And that makes Yuri dig in his heels even harder. Do things like skate like Sokolov isn't there and stop practice to text Victor whenever he thinks of something (Victor always texts him back even though no one pays him either). So when Yuri's cell phone rings one day during practice, Yuri picks up. 

“What do you need, old man?” Yuri says, and staring at Sokolov right in the eyes. Pissing him off is just a bonus; Yuri would have picked up anyway.  Because Victor texts—or rather, texts back—but he never texts first, and he never, ever calls. 

“Am I on speaker?” Victor asks. 

_What?_  “Um, no? Why would you be?” 

“Great…” There’s a pause as Victor breathes in, then out. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure?” Yuri says before he thinks to ask what the favor is.

“Will you go to the toilets for me, Yurka?” Victor says, and Yuri’s head spins. Because Victor’s voice is a low, warm rumble, the way Otabek’s gets when he _wants_ , and that's not who Victor is to him, it's not what they are. 

Yuri’s heart beats; he swallows. 

From the other side of the boards, Sokolov stares at him. 

“I’m at the rink,” Yuri says slowly. But of course Victor knows. 

Sokolov’s mad, Yuri can tell, but  it takes balls to make a two-time Olympic champion ask permission to go potty.  So here Yuri is, walking down a maze of corridors he’s walked since he was ten. His skate guards clank on the floor. He turns a corner. Over the phone, he can hear Victor’s breath, worked-up and uneven. 

_Yurka._ Yuri’s known Victor for more than half his life, and Victor’s never, ever, called him that. No one did. Just dedushka. 

Yuri stops in front of the door to the toilets and closes his eyes. His heart still beats, and he really should’ve taken that bottle of water along, his throat feels fucking parched. There’s no question that he’ll press down the handle, go in. There’s never been a question, not in Yuri's mind.  Just… he’s finally allowed to do _something_ for Victor, and the weight of that sits like a lump in his throat. 

A memory flashes: being scrawny and thirteen, Victor drunk, spouting shit like, _all these medals, Yura, they’re like light pollution; how it drowns out the stars; you know there’s a you that’s supposed to be there but you can’t see it, all there is, is the brown-grey of the smog…_ Yuri remembers trying to lift him but being too small; Victor’s rancid breath, the smell of his puke on the floor mixing with the smell of vodka. The utter misery in Victor’s ramblings. How it felt to feel like there was nothing, absolutely nothing Yuri could do to make Victor feel better. (To make Victor see _him_ through the fog of his misery). 

“Yura?” Victor’s voice says in his ear. 

“I’m here.” Yuri swallows through the lump in his throat and opens the door.

 

_________

 

The stall door bangs shut and Yuri locks it. Victor still breathes in his ear. “What do you need?” Yuri's voice is quiet but it still echoes in the empty room. 

Victor is quiet, too. “Turn your camera on. I want to see you, Yurka. Show me.”

“You too,” Yuri says, trying to get it to come out as grown-up as he can make it, even though he's no longer thirteen.

Victor’s face comes into focus. “Not as exciting, I’m afraid.” He looks tired and his hair's kind of weird, but Yuri is still glad to see him, even like this. 

“You too,” Yuri says, firmer. “I want you to.” 

“No. Just you. Please, Yurka. For me.” It does something to the middle of Yuri's chest, Victor sounding this plaintive—something half-love, half-pain. It’s always been like this, loving Victor. Like there's a gaping maw, both in himself and in Victor, always lacking, needing, thirsting. 

_Yurka_. “I want you to call me that,” Yuri says, almost shy.

Victor tries to smile on the screen, that smile that feels like even lifting the corners of his mouth is work. But he says, “My Yurka,” and the quiet affection in his voice in genuine.

“Yeah.” He’s always been. 

Victor sighs and Yuri wants to shake him—'cause was there ever any doubt? Seriously, did Victor never... but he did. He must have known, or he wouldn't be calling now.

“I want to see… your shirt, your dick... and turn on speakerphone so I can hear you.”" Victor says. 

Yuri can get used to it, being spoken to like that. He  fiddles with the phone, tries to hold it in place with one hand as he tugs down the elastic of his leggings with the other. His boxers are faded and kind of pathetic, but that’s probably not what Victor’s here for—Yuri tries to give his dick a bounce as he frees it, focuses on keeping the tips of his skates in the picture. He’s not sure what Victor wants. He figures, keep his hand more to the underside, so Victor can see. 

“Let go into it, Yurka,” Victor murmurs. “Don’t try to put on a show. Let me see you enjoy your body-”

“Shut up, you idiot, someone might walk in and hear-” Yuri says but his hand is moving on his dick and Victor is watching him and talking to him-

“I wish I was there so I could smell that dick, right out of practice-”

“Fuck,” Yuri says and his head thumps back against the stall door. He doesn’t even know if he’s holding the phone right anymore, just that he wants; he wants Victor to see him—his dick bucking into his fist is something Victor’s got a use for-

“Stop,” Victor says.

“-fuck you-”

“Stop.” 

Yuri takes a deep breath as he does, but his chest still heaves. 

“Turn the camera around," Victor says. "Show me your face.”

“You fucking weirdo,” Yuri says, panting, but takes the same hand that was on his dick and taps around until his flushed, blotchy face comes into focus. “Happy?” 

“Yurka...” Victor says. He sounds _disappointed_ , and what the fuck does that fucking asshole have to be _disappointed_ about-  “Yurka, don’t...”

“Don’t what?” 

Victor sighs, and on the screen, he looks tired. He opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t fucking bother,” Yuri says. “Sorry I wasn’t what you fucking wanted.”

He cuts of the call and sits on the toilet. His dick is still hard, even though he feels like utter crap, and if this isn’t the perfect metaphore for all things Victor, Yuri doesn’t know what is. 

By the time Yuri’s come into a wad of toilet paper, he’s even managed to stop crying. 

There’s twelve notifications on his phone, but he won't click on them. He’s got practice to finish. 


	2. Chapter 2

Yuri’s sprawled on the bed in his studio, fiddling with his phone and listening to Potya crunch on her dry food. He does’t think—good part is, he’s an old hand at not thinking: stuffing crap down, taking it out on the ice and on whoever’s stupid enough not to leave him alone (today, Sokolov volunteered). Yuri would feel bad except even the two junior girls knew to give him a wide berth. 

Potya’s finished her dinner and is now cleaning herself in the middle of the room. Yuri scrolls through the front page of reddit. 

Potya stares up at him, one leg sticking up in the air.

Yuri stares back at Potya. 

She uncurls and pads over to him: she’s fed, she’s clean, so it’s nap-time; she’s come to hang out. Yuri slow-blinks at her as she jumps and settles next to him on the bed. 

Right. Should get it over with. He looks at the red blob of his text notifications but opens vk instead. 

Beks has messaged him. _You’re not texting me all the time are you having a crap day? Here, have a cat._ It’s a black and white tom, lying on his back on some boards with his paws curled up in the air. _Good cat_. Yuri texts and adds a cat emoji. Otabek’s not online, but he’ll know. He’s a good boyfriend. Except for how he’s all the way over in Toronto, and how he wants to get a wife and have kids. Which, at least he’s honest.

Right. Yuri breathes in and taps. Scrolls. 

_Yurka_

_My Yurka_

_You are what I want_

_But you touch yourself like you’re in a hurry_

_like you want to remove yourself from the picture_

_I was only going to tell you to wait, to slow down_

_To enjoy your youth, your body_

_Feel how lovely and beautiful it is,_

_how much tenderness it deserves_

_how honed it is, a perfect instrument, the best in the world,_

_a gift_

_Don’t be mad at me, Yurka._

_Call me._

Yuri stares at the messages. Because What. The. Fuck. This would be weird even if it wasn’t some Georgi-grade bullshit. 

So, Victor calls him. At the rink. Completely out of left field. And asks Yuri to jerk off for him like Yuri is _a gift_. 

Yuri takes a moment to bask in the sheer incongruity of getting himself off on feeling lovely and deserving. Of tenderness, no less. How did Victor come up with this crap?

Then he remembers tattered posters, faded pictures. Some of them, framed, still hang in the office that’s no longer Yakov’s. The cutest boy, with the sweetest smile; with a flower crown on his silky silver hair. With the strongest thighs and the roundest butt, best in the world, body a fine-tuned instrument. 

Remembers the balding, tired-looking guy that called Yuri today.

Yuri takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Drags a protesting, sleepy Potya on his lap and pets her while he tries to wrap his brain around this. Okay. So, Victor is bonkers (which, what else is new). And he wants Yuri to—what. Smile and be pretty? Of all the people in the world…

Right. Yuri breathes, in and out, and calls him. 

The little dots move, and move, and move on the screen. Victor doesn’t pick up. 

Yuri would throw his phone at the wall; he’d go on an rant punching things, but he’s not sixteen anymore. He knows that Victor’s gonna Victor; if a rant could fix it, Yakov might even have had hair left. 

Just when he’s about to toss his phone aside to mope properly with Potya, it buzzes lightly in his arm. _Huh_. 

Victor’s got headphones in his ears, and behind him is the tile of the Katsuki-Nikiforov toilet. His hair is out of place, he looks tired. _My Yurka, you called_ , Victor types. 

Yuri stares at him, and through his mind goes, _Beautiful, honed, lovely, deserving. Show me, Yurka. For me._ Does Victor know what he’s asking of him? There’ll be no cutting corners, here. No play-acting. Victor’s a skater, a coach, a choreo. He has as much of a chance fooling Victor as he had fooling Lilia. If Victor wants lovely, Yuri will have to _be_ it, in his bones.

_You can talk, I can hear you_ , Victor types. _I’ll text._

Of course you will, Yuri thinks. 

_My beautiful Yurka. Will you get naked for me?_

Right. 

“Sokolov’s a fucking waste of space,” Yuri blurts out. “Pisses me off so much. Wants me to suck up to him and _show him respect_ , treat him like some kind of expert.” He pulls up his shirt, tugs it over his head. “I don’t fucking need him. I know what I’ve got to do way better than a fucking loser who wants his ego stroked-”

_You probably do, and he probably is_ , Victor says. Yuri needs to blink. He doesn’t know how to take it, being told, “I trust your judgement, if you say he sucks, you're probably right.” Victor doesn’t look like he’s just humoring him either. 

_Is he useful for your long-term goals?_ Victor types.

Long-term goals. Now _that_ ’s a good question. Yuri’s goals are to make it through each day of training and go get his medals when the time comes. “How long-term is long-term?” He asks. 

_Five, ten, twenty years._

Eh? 

_Think about it_ , Victor types. _If you could have a perfect life at any of those points, what it would look like._

“You’re bonkers, old man.” Deserving of tenderness, hoping things will turn out a certain way—that’s not how life works for Yuri. Life works how life works, it doesn’t matter what you want. Mom left, dedushka’s dead, Yakov got a stroke, Victor’s in Japan. Otabek wants a wife. 

Yuri stares at Victor on the screen, says nothing. Victor doesn’t know what he’s asking for, does he? He comes from a world where if you ask for love, you get it, and asking yourself where you’d like to be ten years from now makes sense. _Except it doesn’t anymore, does it_ , Yuri thinks, _or you won’t be calling_. Victor can picture yhimself however he likes—but time goes one way.

_What?_ Victor types. 

“Nothing, just… the goals thing. I don’t know,” Yuri says and it comes out strangely thoughtful. 

_You don’t have to figure it out now. Just let go and enjoy your body_

Yuri chuckles. “It’s not that easy, old man,” he chuckles. “But I’ll give it a try. For you.”


End file.
